A Few Right Thinking Men (28 page)

Chapter Thirty-three

Black Hoods

SYDNEY, Wednesday

A New Guard official today, referring to the existence of the black hoods and gowns, declared that talk of the Fascist Legion was “all bunk” but added that he knew of six such hoods.

The Sydney Morning Herald
, March 17, 1932

Rowland used raw sienna to mark in the basic shapes of the large work. Eric Campbell stood before him, posed in a manner that, by itself, seemed a little bizarre. The Colonel had insisted on being painted with his hat on for some reason, but Rowland had managed to accommodate the request. Campbell stood with one arm raised triumphantly and the other grasping the empty air. On the canvas Rowland would later add figures into the scene with whom the painted Campbell would interact. That was the plan, anyway. Right now he used his brush to knead the shapes he'd marked, so that very quickly he found a sepia shadow of his subject.

Campbell chatted amiably as Rowland worked, unguarded in his conversation. Clyde Watson Jones had proved reliable.

“I'm afraid your plans of the Berrima facility, outstanding as they were, will be for naught, Clyde,” he said, speaking gently in an attempt to soften the blow.

“Has something happened, sir?”

“What hasn't happened?” Campbell sighed. “The man we posted at Lang's farm was picked up for vagrancy…Winslow's lease on the gaol has been terminated…unlawfully, but that will take an age to fight…and they've started bloody roadworks outside the Bunnerong power station, so the access routes are completely compromised. I've recommended that the Council of Action votes to stop.”

Inwardly, Rowland cheered for Delaney. “I'm sorry to hear that, sir.”

“Me, too, Clyde. Still, it's a delay not an end.”

Campbell went on to talk, in more general terms, of his plans for the state, the benefits of government by commission and, of course, the scourge of the Communists. Rowland worked quickly, pulling pigment into a tonal representation. After an hour or so, he let Campbell leave but continued to paint in the sunny sitting room at Boongala, which his subject had designated a studio.

Poynton wandered in a little while after Campbell had returned to his office, and sat smoking, watching the artist at work. “John Dynon is furious.”

“Why?'

“Stupid bastard thinks someone's leaked the plan…But if that were true, we'd have a bloody sight more problems than roadworks.” Poynton exhaled a large cloud of smoke. “Dynon's on some kind of quest to find this spy. Good luck, is what I say.”

“This unit that Dynon heads…you called it the Legion…what is it, exactly?”

Poynton grinned. He got up and shut the door to the room. “The Fascist Legion,” he said, lowering his voice. “Special forces—assassins, of sorts—but they don't go that far…they deal out a hiding when it's called for.”

“They've never been arrested?”

“They're pretty hard to identify…only Dynon knows who they all are.”

“How do they manage that?” Rowland continued to dab paint as he spoke.

“They do everything in disguise—meetings, operations, the lot. They don't use names, their membership changes regularly…it's kind of hard to explain.”

“So these people they deal out hidings to—who decides who gets it?” Rowland tried to ask the question without weight. “The Colonel?”

“God, no!” said Poynton. “I suppose if the Colonel had a request, Dynon would take care of it…but he doesn't involve himself in that level of detail. He's a busy man.”

“Who, then?”

Poynton shrugged. “Dynon and the Kings, I guess” Rowland put down his brush.

“The Kings?”

“Dynon's men,” Poynton kept his voice low. “Not a nice bunch—cut from the same cloth as Dynon—the numbers just do as they're told.”

Rowland stared at the bodyguard. “The numbers?”

Poynton smiled. “The Legion never uses names, so they've all taken a card as identity—a deck of forty-nine.”

“There are fifty-two cards in a deck,” Rowland pointed out.

“Well, naturally nobody wanted to be a Queen, so that's forty-eight.” Poynton sniggered. “And Dynon made himself the Joker.”

“Naturally,” agreed Rowland. Apparently, men who dressed up to assault innocent citizens drew the line at being called “Queens.”

“Why are you so interested in the Fascist Legion, Jonesy?”

“You've got to admit they're a bit odd,” Rowland said casually. “I'm just curious.”

Poynton's grin returned. “Do you want to go to a meeting?” he asked slyly. “You know, see how they work?”

“But how…surely they don't allow spectators?”

“We wouldn't go as spectators.” Poynton motioned for Rowland to take the chair next to him. “As I said, they go to the meetings in disguise—the numbers don't really speak—they just hold their card. There's forty of them currently and they don't all come to every meeting.”

“So, what are you proposing?” Rowland asked, trying to get past the absurdity of the deck of cards.

“I'll find out who isn't going to be there—we'll go in their place. Robed up we won't be recognised…It'll be a lark.”

“Where do we get the robes?”

Poynton looked a little embarrassed. “I have my own set,” he admitted. “I was in the Legion before Dynon decided I wasn't made of the right stuff—I'll just get my old mum to run up a set for you…She's amazing with a sewing machine, my mum…and the robes aren't exactly high fashion.”

Rowland hesitated. “It sounds a bit risky.”

“Come on, Jonesy!” Poynton was excited now. “What could happen? It's just a bit of a joke. You're the Colonel's blue-eyed boy at the moment—even Dynon's not going to mess with you.”

Rowland smiled. “Fair enough. So, when?”

“I'll let you know,” Poynton said as he predictably tapped the side of his nose. “When are you next coming back to paint?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“Perfect—I'll have your robes by then and I'll know when and where, and whose cards we can carry…” The bodyguard was clearly relishing his plan.

***

Back at Woodlands House, Rowland shrugged off his secret life as Clyde Watson Jones, and began preparing canvases for another series that he'd been mulling over since the evening at the 50–50 Club. There was something about the grittiness, the debauched misery of the place. It was raw, a shocking base reality. Women who—even fully clothed—reeked of depravity in a way that his nudes never did, and men who were completely indifferent to the law. The unselfconscious ugliness of it all intrigued him, challenging him to capture it in paint. It was a stark contrast to the carefully orchestrated, lyrical image he was painting of Campbell; and it interested him far more.

It was only when he had stretched a half dozen canvases that he remembered his paint box was still at Boongala. He cursed, frustrated. Clyde was home, so he was able to cadge a basic palette and a couple brushes, at least, to begin while the muse still had him. Having not been at the 50–50, Clyde watched while the other painter played with compositions of prostitutes and patrons. Rowland spoke to his friend of the Fascist Legion, the pack of cards without Queens, and Poynton's plan.

To his surprise, Clyde wasn't overly concerned. “You and Milt walked in and out of a confrontation with Phil The Jew.”Clyde stretched out on the couch. “If you can get away with that, nothing you do with the New Guard is going to worry me again.” He glanced at the ceiling. “It's obvious somebody up there's looking after you.”

Rowland grinned. “Maybe.”

“So, are you back to thinking the New Guard is responsible for your uncle's death?” Clyde asked.

“I don't know, really.” Rowland squeezed titanium white onto his palette. “Jeffs could be lying…I guess I'm just trying a process of elimination.”

“What?”

“Well, if it turns out the Fascist Legion has nothing to do with Uncle Rowland, I'll start looking at Jeffs and the 50–50 again.”

“What are you going to do…Offer to paint The Jew?”

“I could,” Rowland laughed. “I'll worry about that if I turn out to be wrong about the Legion. For the moment, I think I believe him…It sounds like Uncle Rowland was a source of funds that asked no questions.”

“Does it bother you that your uncle was so involved with these people?”

“It didn't, till I met them.”

“And now?”

Rowland continued painting. “How could it not bother me?”

“Well you're rid of it now.” Clyde had no doubt that the squalid unattractive amorality of the 50–50 troubled his friend. Rowland had chosen a more libertine life than that to which he was born, but it had been sanitised by his name and his wealth.

***

Poynton did not disappoint. The bodyguard entered the makeshift studio after the Colonel had finished his session and thrust a parcel at Rowland. “Your uniform,” he said tapping the side of his nose in his fashion.

Rowland took the package as Poynton pulled a playing card out of his pocket. He handed the artist the three of hearts. “Don't lose this,” he said. “You're going in for Bob Russell. I'm going to be Mal Marshall—he's the deuce of clubs.”

“Why aren't they going?”

“Bob's got some business out of the city, and Mal's wife won't let him go. Anyways, they both think I'm relaying their apologies to Dynon, so nobody will be surprised to see their cards.”

“When?”

“Couple of hours. The King of Diamonds has been abroad, so they haven't met for a while. They're gathering at one of De Groot's warehouses in Rushcutters Bay.”

“Is De Groot in the Legion?”

“I doubt it,” Poynton replied. “I can't see him as one of the numbers kowtowing to the Kings.”

“Give me a minute to clean up.”

Poynton was making a night of it. The actual meeting was for late in the evening, so he took Rowland to a nearby hotel for a meal. Rowland decided he quite enjoyed Poynton's company. Talking to the man, he could as easily have been a Communist as a Guardsman, or anything in between. Poynton just had a need to belong to something, to be a part of what was happening. It just so happened that he found the New Guard first, and brought to it all the enthusiasm of a child allowed to join his big brother's gang.

They caught a train from Turramurra and then a ferry from Milsons Point to Circular Quay. From there, they hailed a motorcab, which let them out at Rushcutters Bay to make their way the few blocks to De Groot's premises. As they approached the warehouse, Poynton took them into an alleyway. “Here's where we put on our uniforms, Jonesy,” he said. “Legionnaires have gotta arrive in robes to maintain secrecy…wouldn't want to be recognised.”

Rowland watched Poynton and then pulled on his own long black robe and hood, courtesy of the bodyguard's mother. He felt utterly ridiculous.

As they skulked out of the alley and into the grounds outside the warehouse, Rowland could only hope that they wouldn't be noticed or, worse, arrested for wandering Rushcutters Bay in such bizarre outfits. Under the hood he winced with embarrassment at the mere thought. How would he explain it? He'd have to shoot himself…it'd be the only honourable way out…If it hit the papers, Wilfred would shoot him anyway.

Fortunately, they encountered no one until they were within the warehouse grounds. Rowland followed the detailed instructions Poynton had given him about how he should conduct himself. He held the three of hearts in front of his chest at all times, lifting it before his face in some kind of peculiar salute every time they came across another Legionnaire. Nobody said a word. Every now and then Rowland wanted to laugh, but suppressed it. He did wonder what Phil The Jew would think of this.

The warehouse had been readied for the Legion's meeting. Dynon, who was unhooded, and who held the Joker before him, called everyone to order. He stood on an elevated stage, the four Kings seated behind him facing the lesser royals and the numbers who sat on chairs set out in rows. The Kings, too, had removed their hoods. Rowland stiffened. Henry Alcott, Aubrey's old friend, held the King of Diamonds.

The meeting began and it soon became apparent why the Joker and the Kings were unhooded. It was for them, and them only, to speak. The hoods would have muffled any discourse.

The Legion was organised into four units—the playing card suits. Rowland listened as the Kings and Dynon spoke of their plans for future operations. It seemed that when a King proposed an operation, another King and his suit were given the responsibility for executing it. Convoluted, but Rowland supposed this was to do with maintaining secrecy.

The Kings were debating a proposal, put forward by the King of Spades, to kidnap the Premier and bring him to the Harbour Bridge Opening, dressed as a beggar. Clearly, the Fascist Legion was somewhat obsessed with fancy dress. The logistics were tortuous, involving an ambulance and several umbrellas, and the other Kings were less than impressed.